


Rat

by BoomyMcBlasty



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Character Study, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, M/M, Sad and Happy, Semi-Public Sex, Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, no beta we die like men, three loosely related depressing fragments and light smut at the end, using sex to forget about truma, written with a male PC in mind but can kinda work with a female one as well, your OC here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomyMcBlasty/pseuds/BoomyMcBlasty
Summary: Ethel was a funny little old woman. Astarion almost liked her.Then the hag spoke—shouted, actually; “Is there still a rat stuck in your teeth?” Astarion could deal with the illusions, could deal with the spells. “Slave!”He could not deal with her mockery.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 114





	Rat

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some light spoilers for Ethel's fight and the Origin-only dream of Cazador.

Astarion never thought death could be such a comfortable affair. He knew, of course, that his limbs were bent _wrongly_ like those of a broken marionette, and that his clothes were drenched in blood, but the pain turned those very urgent matters into trivialities; the pain, in turn, was so unbearable that it became numbness, a rapid dulling of the senses like he had never experienced before. 

He didn’t want to die, of course—did anyone, _ever_?—but his mind couldn’t focus on a specific reason. He was too dazed to think properly, too weak to cry for help, yet he still felt his throat rasping.

Then a pale visage entered his dimmed field of vision. The man, a raven-haired half-elf, looked at him with interest, then made an offer drowned by the ringing of his ears. 

_Eternal life_.

Astarion was many things, but not a fool. The man was a vampire, and the offer Astarion’s only chance to live.

So he nodded in agreement.

His mind barely registered the grin of the vampire—a sharp pain in his neck, and Astarion’s wheeze became his last.

But he wasn’t dead. What he had felt against those cut-throats was nothing compared to the excruciating agony of feeling his own flesh and bone knitting back, his organs twist and _change_. His pupils were melting, liquefying under his eyelids. His skull cracked as pointy fangs grew around his canines.

Astarion wheezed again, and this time his voice was clear and his hearing restored.

He was… alive. 

He found himself in an unfamiliar place, a lavish room draped in heavy curtains with scarlet lights dancing around the chandeliers. For how long had he been dead?

The vampire crouching in front of him had cold, scarlet eyes. “I am Cazador Szarr.”

He offered Astarion his hand, and the rich velvet sleeve of the vampire revealed a pale wrist. When Astarion’s eyes fell on the blue veins under the tender skin, something inside him twisted. _Hunger_.

He looked at the vampire, but his face betrayed no emotion. 

Astarion mistook it for encouragement. He leaned in, clumsily baring his new fangs, when white hot pain seared his cheek. 

The back slap seemed to put the vampire in a better mood. “First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.”

*

Rats were filthy creatures, prowling sewers and spreading diseases. They disgusted Astarion… yet he was hungry. 

He was trying to rub the creature’s belly, trying to clean it, but the squirming of the rat made his attempts futile. Its fur was soaked in grime.

A few feet away, Cazador Szarr was feasting on a tavern wench. She wasn’t pretty enough to be missed the morning after, and the degenerate seemed to like being _food,_ judging from the sounds she was producing. 

A single drop of blood was slowly making its way from her neck to her arm. Astarion’s eyes fixated on the deep, rich color—what would it taste like?

The drop left a scarlet trail on the woman’s finger. It was hanging heavy like fruit from her fingertip; Astarion felt his entire body shiver.

Then it fell. A single, beautiful red drop on the marble floor. He wanted to crawl there and experience it—he only wanted a taste, a single drop—but his body would not move.

His sire’s commands were absolute.

The rat was still squirming in his hands; when Astarion’s eyes fell on it, he gagged. 

Yet he was so hungry...

He brought the creature to his mouth with trembling hands, closed his eyes and sank his fangs in the animal.

***

Ethel was a funny little old woman. Astarion almost _liked_ her. 

He liked her even more when she turned out to be a green hag. Her little workshop was a wondrous display of fools and aberrations; Astarion had to admire her creativity.

Of course, his little group _had_ to try to rescue that foolish pregnant woman and had to anger the hag. It would have been tragic, really, was he not feeling peckish. 

Then the hag spoke—shouted, actually; “Is there still a rat stuck in your teeth?” Astarion could deal with the illusions, could deal with the spells. “Slave!”

He could not deal with her mockery. 

Dread assailed him, a chilly feeling that made his hands clammy and his stomach queasy.

Astarion had told the others of a more glamorous diet, kobolds and such. Not rats.

He did not want to remember those—he gagged at the thought, drawn back to the surface once again. 

His unfocused eyes searched the faces of his companions, but they seemed too engrossed in the fight to care about what Ethel had said.

Good. He steeled his grip around his daggers and concluded that maybe he did not like the hag as much as he had previously thought.

Astarion was conflicted that evening. On one hand, he was grateful for the acceptance his companions had shown him. On the other hand, he was appalled at their lacking reaction.

Hello? Ethel had not slung some weak “Half elf, half human, all useless” insult to him like he had to Shadowheart. He did not want their pity, but some sort of acknowledgement should have been the bare minimum in polite company.

 _Oh, no_. He was starting to care about their opinions.

The stone bed in the camp was hidden from sight; the perfect place to get to know someone intimately without wandering too far off. Astarion had promised their makeshift leader no more midnight surprises, but nightly nibbles were demurely offered and enthusiastically accepted every time.

“Tonight I don’t feel like your darling neck, no.” 

His lover blinked slowly, with a smile that betrayed curiosity. Astarion planted his finger on the leather that still covered his chest and lightly pushed, just once. A gentle command that made his lover sit on the stone bed.

“I need something more… savoury.”

There was nothing better than sex to fend off the thoughts that haunted him that day—and if it doubled as dinner? Lucky him.

Astarion crouched on the ground, busying himself with hoops and belts and the maddening amount of clothing that still covered those taut legs, but not conceal the growing desire of his lover. 

Astarion placed his hands on his dear’s knees, spreading them lovingly to admire the honest display of arousal. A chuckle escaped his lips, betraying his giddiness.

Then he rested his face on his lover’s thigh; the hot skin was almost throbbing with the rhythmic drumming of his pulse, the alluring song of blood tucked under muscle. Astarion brushed his lips against his lover’s thigh until he could _feel_ his lover’s pulse.

He gently pushed the leg upwards, to gain better access, then sank his fangs into the flesh to pierce it. 

That night, Astarion felt in a _licking_ mood. Closing his mouth around the two small tears, he began lapping at the blood dripping from it. His lover’s sweat added a salty quality to it, and that made it even more delectable.

It was far from efficient, but so much fun. His other hand reached his lover and began stroking him lazily, turning the soft whine from pain to pleasure.

From pain to pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's me again with sad headcanons—this time in third person! I struggled a bit with his posh pre-turning voice. Hopefully it turned out fine! Hopefully the fragments aren't too disjointed :D who am I kidding.  
> I kept the details of Astarion's lover as vague as possible so you can throw your own PC in there. Change some pronouns and it can work for female PCs as well.  
> The more I think about Astarion's backstory, the more I'm think Larian won't give him a happy ending. Pls let this man be happy  
> EDIT: Changed some sentences slightly to better fit the Forgotten Realms lore, any inconsistencies are a poetic license™


End file.
